Warsaw: a new way to look at something from the past

 Here's a game I could play: Warsaw without  --- (fill in the blank), is not Warsaw. The city has so many striking features and monuments and historic events, that were you to ask a group of Varsovians to make a list of five iconic items, that define Warsaw for them, each list would be vastly different. But I think I am correct in believing that every list would include the Palace of Culture. Warsaw would not be Warsaw without it. 

It isn't universally loved. In fact, it's like an on again off again boyfriend. You're indifferent to him, then you are pushed to love him, but you wind up hating him, and eventually you settle into a more casual "like". But heck, it is Warsaw's central point, its most photographed building, its fixture, and with a sigh of resignation -- its accepted iconic structure.

There are many stories about it, but this we know for sure: its construction started in 1952, the year before I was born. Completed in 1955, so 70 years ago. It was a "gift from Stalin," a "symbol of Soviet domination over Poland" and perhaps for this reason jokes abounded as to how to hate this tallest tower in Poland. ("Go to the top and then you don't have to see it.")

But, it grew on most of us. The performance halls within were far more beautiful than those elsewhere. The first western rock group to come to Poland during the Communist era, the Rolling Stones, performed there. There is a vast and beautiful swimming pool inside, open to the public. 

The full name of the building is the Palace of Culture and Science and indeed, science was important to the many who worked there. When I was a student of econometrics beginning in 1969, we would have to walk to it from the university to run our computer programs, because that's where the university's giant computers were housed. The square that surrounds it is vast and when Poland turned to a market economy in 1989, it first became an ugly parking lot, then equally ugly booths sprung up selling every piece of junk imaginable. It was like a bazaar of clutter. Some lobbied to tear down the whole structure and the square (after all, before the war, there were city blocs with housing units there), and start anew. But emotions calmed and in the end good sense prevailed. The building stayed and eventually was buffed up again. The stalls were cleared and this year, in celebration of its 70th birthday, a new, more inviting space opened and a new era of the Palace of Culture has been launched. (You can get a snapshot of its history here.)

You could always go to the top; it does offer the best view of the city. My childhood association with it (which I describe in my book) is, however,  awful. My paternal grandfather went with us to the top. I was afraid. To make me braver, he picked me up and dangled me over the side, 32 stories above the pavement, repeating to me "you can not be afraid." I didn't hate him for it. I suppose having just survived the war, he felt it important to create tough kids, who could survive anything. But of course, I did not toughen up over the episode and I do have now a solid fear of heights.

 

My day today belongs to Bee. I have thought for a long time now that Bee would be the perfect neighborhood friend for me back in Madison. The one you have walks and coffees on a repeat basis as needed -- meaning every few days. Of course, she would not then be Bee. She'd be a Madison person stuck in a Madison mindset, offering a Madison perspective on the world. I love her friendship, and I also love her Polishness. So we are slated to do this across an ocean, with only the occasional (now seemingly annual) visits of mine to Warsaw.

First, let's set the stage: the day is very warm. They say it'll be a high of 80f/27c, but we know that's just plain wrong. It will go higher, because the morning is already warm. And sunny. 

(was I just writing about the Palace of Culture? Here it is, from my balcony window)

Breakfast? I'm trying to stay focused on what's good but also good for me. Dark bread, oatmeal, watermelon, a small sweet roll, a soft boiled egg.

I'm done. Bee is waiting in the lobby.

I asked her to come up with a plan for the day. She does, and as always, it is perfect. We are to walk over to the Palace of Culture and take a peak at the newly constructed Museum of Modern Art (described by Time Magazine as a top place to visit in 2025) on the Plac Defilad (loosely translated as Parade Grounds, because during the Communist postwar years, this is where the parades passed through to be observed by the highest dignitaries; it was the kind of show of power and loyalty that our administration back home would very much like to replicate today). 

Our walk from the hotel takes us through Saski Park -- created for the royalty of the early 18th century.

How I love the parks of Warsaw! So many, so grand, so soothing.

And now we approach the Palace.

The Museum is closed in the morning, but we are really here for the Palace trip up to the 30th floor for the view form the top. And even before we get there, we spend a long while admiring the open space created all around the Palace. It's truly lovely!

Bee had tickets for our ride up, so we got in line for the two elevators. I suppose this could get really crowded at some point, but at 11 am on a summer Tuesday, it is very reasonable. Maybe a ten minute wait.

And now the views from the top. 

Warsaw isn't the type of city that really makes a grand impression from a summit. The city's architectural potpourri is best observed at street level. If I'd bring my grandkids here, they'd do a quick walk around and then ask to go back down, maybe to visit the spider exhibition below! [I say this facetiously as Snowdrop has a powerful case of arachnophobia.] Me, I have a rush of remembrances: of my search from up above, as a little girl, for the apartment building where we lived, then of my feet dangling over the edge (it could not happen today -- there is wire fencing all around), and of my then retreat to the back in tears. 

(view of my hotel: the short white building in the middle, with almost black looking windows, and perhaps more importantly, a view toward the Old Town with the red roof tiles)

(view of my childhood neighborhood)

 

(view of the new Museum of Modern Art -- white and rectangular but absolutely beautiful inside) 

(view of the market economy sky scrapers to the west, finally out-competing the Palace in height)

 

We go down.

Though the new museum is still closed, their cafe is open. We check it out. Just for the hell of it.

 

 

Bee then takes me to the edge of the former Jewish district. Again, to remind you, before the war, the city was one-third Jewish. World War II basically erased that population and most of those who survived, moved away. The number of Warsaw Jews dropped from 300 000 before the War to 2 000 today.

We sit down at a lovely outdoor table of the Cafe Menora. It's on the newly improved Próżna Street -- a pretty block of white buildings, with coffee shops and eateries that reflect the style of this neighborhood from before the war.

 

 

 

 

 

I order a Chocolate Raspberry Babka slice, she has a lemon croissant and then a Chalka bread to take home.

It is the most perfect moment to sit back, to talk once more.

Out of the blue, I ask her -- if you had to be born in another country (and thus likely live there), where would it be? I've been thinking about this lately, because for myself -- I have no good answer. My life in Poland was reasonably good because though I was born poor, my father's diplomatic ties to the west gave us advantages that most others did not have. Too, I went to a great and very competitive high school, I had exquisite friends. But Poland was hugely impoverished after the war and the Soviets made sure to  keep levels of investment from the outside low. And before the war? Poverty was rampant. I can't say then that being dropped by a stork onto the streets of Warsaw would have been my first choice! Chances of landing as well as I did would not have been high. As for America? Well it's the same -- were I to be in a situation of privilege, without the encumbrance of poverty, race, and any other number of markers, then yes -- my life there would have been and indeed has been awfully good, and for many decades I loved the freedom and diversity of my American environment.  So which country, without regard to status or wealth? A Scandinavian one? France? Where? I dont have an obvious answer except to say that I loved Poland when I lived here and I love the country I moved to as a young adult and continued to live in to this day. And there you have it.

From the cafe, we walk to the nearby Hala Mirowska. I wanted to see a Polish market once again and I think this one is one of the best. Perhaps the best.

You'd think that all northern European farmers markets would be the same. The growing season is similar, the fruits and veggies mature and ripen at the same pace. So why is it that I view a Polish market to be so unique that I could recognize it anywhere? Here, let me show you a few stalls of what I regard as absolutely essential Polish foods. I'll list them in red.

 

gooseberries -- red and white, red currants, chanterelles, wild blueberries, hanging garlic 

 

 

sunflowers, cabbage 

 

 

 fraises de bois

 

 

pickling cucumbers, wild blueberries, dill, radishes, chanterelles, Porcini mushrooms, raspberries 

 

 

sour cherries 

 

 

more mushrooms more cucumbers, potatoes 

 

 

(Bee joins the line) 

 

 

very many potatoes, plums 

 

 

I buy some wild blueberries. (The big cultivated ones they dont call blueberries at all. They're "American Bilberries." Weird but true.)

And raspberries. All Polish, all delicious.

[Walking back, I pass one of the many signs commemorating an anniversary of the Warsaw Uprising during World War II. As long as I am alive, I will have with me memories of a destroyed city. I'm not surprised that Poles of my generation cannot let go of that period. Trauma stays with you and Poland was most definitely traumatized. The younger generations? These commemorative banners are probably wallpaper to them.] 

 

 

 

Bee and I part now. I take my fruits back to the hotel, I log in and catch up on email and Ocean, and then I set out again. I'm meeting Bee at the tram stop. I asked her to try with me a relatively new vegan restaurant on the other side of the river: Peaches Gastro Girls. Run by two women, with a mostly female staff. Concentrating on Polish fruits and veggies, prepared in a clever and innovative way. [I read about it in the Fare book on Warsaw. My daughter pointed me to the text and I've found it totally absorbing -- an account of the ever changing food and shop scene in Warsaw.]

Warsaw for me is never without memories and I have that strange tightness within me as we ride through the old "West-East Tunnel",  then cross the river, and swing past the train station from which I would travel to my grandparents' home in the deep Polish countryside. 

We get off a couple of stops later.  

Peaches is in Praga, which is the part of Warsaw that was least destroyed during the war. The Germans concentrated on the left bank -- the heart of the city. And since during the Warsaw Uprising (when the city was so totally destroyed) the bridges across the river were knocked down, the Germans continued to focus on the central district, on the west bank of the river. This means that Praga retains some of its prewar architecture, though in the past, Praga was the poorest part of Warsaw and that too is only slowly changing.

As we get off and walk the couple of blocks to Peaches, we pass buildings that you would not see these days on the other side of the river.

They remind me of the Warsaw I knew as a child. Scarred structures, terrible courtyards. 

Of course, this is bound to change. Already there are plenty of new building and refreshed facades on old building  and yet, that past remains visible. I feel like a five year old child, walking with my mother, looking at the dank entrance ways, clutching her hand tightly because they looked dark and scary.

But the Peaches Restaurant is an entirely different story. It's an open kitchen, and perhaps you'd call the interiors "very modest,"  but it has a lovely courtyard, and of course the evening is perfect for outside dining.

 (our waiter is being taught how to open a bubbly wine bottLe. Non-alcoholic, French, and very good for once!)

 

And the food is fabulous! Probably the best vegan food I have ever eaten (and they are right, you dont think of it as vegan, it's just good food exquisitely prepared. Mushrooms, dumplings and a cucumber and peach salad. 

Totally remarkable.

We dont order dessert because Bee has baked a cake and purchased some fruits. We go to her house and her husband joins us for a very warm an lovely and comfortable celebration of friendship.

(so good!)

 

 

Tomorrow will bring more gaiety and celebration. Tonight? Could I bargain for a decent night of sleep? Anyone in charge of that? I'd be very grateful!

with so much love... 

Warsaw: the essentials

Well, I'm getting closer to a full night's sleep. Not there yet, but working on it. I suppose part of my still too late night came about because I could not for the life of me figure out how to turn on the lights in my room, or the bathroom, or anywhere at all. Hint for future travelers: learn to do this before it's dark and definitely before you turn OFF the lights with the master switch. In the end I had to call down to the reception and they sent a guy up to show me that there is a screen in the room that has all the controls. To my credit, he was still getting the hang of it himself. This is a very new hotel (it even smells brand new!) and not all rooms are created equal.

 But it is a lovely hotel. Quiet today. They say they were at full capacity over the weekend, because there was a concert next door and many people were in for that. Well that tumult has passed. I wake up to quiet. 

And I wake up to a beautiful day. It will be like this the full five days I am here. Absolutely perfect weather. Mostly sunny, not too hot by my standards. Just stunning. (You can't count on this in Poland. Summers can be messy and cold and wet. But this week is exceptionally splendid.)

Outside on my balcony I survey the landscape from all sides.

Warsaw, the city of spires. Church spires... or am I misleading you? The building with the scaffolding still in front is actually the newly renovated Citi Bank. But I'm counting seven other spires in the photo and those are indeed churches. Just a handful in a city that does not lack churches.

And still other spires:

 

Yes, that's the Palace of Culture. (More on that tomorrow.)

Oh, do I know this place well!

I go down to breakfast. It's a menu meal with a bread buffet. I order granola and an egg. I thought I'd rein in the multitude, but then the cinnamon roll looked so good... And they have a bakery on the premises so you can get additional sweet rolls and pastries. Breakfasts will not turn small here!

A couple of seats away, an English speaking guy comes in and orders a quadruple espresso. "If you knew what my day has been like, you'd understand why I need it badly." The waiter politely smiles and goes off to get the super drink. The guest, in my view, was throwing out a line. Asking to be asked. So I step in and ask (after some thought given to the possibility that his night might have had a lot of sex, hence a "wild night" -- something I did not want to hear about): so what did you do to warrant the quad coffee? 

Turns out he is an Irish man, freshly divorced, living in England and doing something he'd always wanted to do (he himself doesn't know why): bike from Krakow to the Baltic Sea along the Vistula River. Sleeping in a hammock along the way. 

We talked for a long while. The guy works with bottom-rung kids in some sort of social service capacity. He had a lot to say about the treatment of immigrants, especially by politicians who want to score points by turning people against them. You can see where this was going to go. Surprisingly, he was empathetic toward Americans, claiming that the politicians in the UK are doing the exact same thing. I suppose we could disagree as to who is winning the race to the bottom. He did admit that we're scoring a lot of points on cruelty.

It was interesting for me to listen to him speak about his experiences in Poland. He maintains a generous stance toward everyone -- your ideal traveler! -- and when asked about where I'd recently traveled and where I'm heading after Poland, he repeatedly commented -- oh, I like that (city or region)! Not a place did I mention that he did not approve of. What a cup-half-full guy! We wished each other an open mind toward our future travels and I quickly went up to get ready of my social life here in Warsaw.

Though, is it really "social" to meet up with your sister? And later your nephew? These two were the focus of my day.

I leave the hotel and snap a photo of it -- a totally new eight story building.

 

 

And I walk to the metro stop -- a convenient 6 minutes away.

The Warsaw metro is neat. It's comfortable, especially on the off hour. And it's free for people my age. I've used it countless times. I sometimes think I do my deepest thinking about Poland when I'm riding it down to where my sister and also my nephew live. It's a chance to look at people, to feel their Polishness, to recognize the walk, the dress, the facial expressions -- all uniquely Polish. Something that I do not see in my everyday back home.

This time, I was watching the expressions of the woman sitting across from me. So, so Polish! I imagine her name to be Asia. She looks like an Asia. But it is the woman to the right, boarding the train in the photo, that grabbed all my attention for the rest of the 25 minute ride. Let me call her Zofia -- somehow it suits her I think. 

 

 

Zofia comes in, sees the empty seat next to me, which has the backpack of a young woman sitting in the place on the other side of it. Zofia stands suggestively and waits. The young woman tsk tsks,  picks up her backpack, moves it to her other side and explodes: this backpack is heavy! There are seats scattered throughout the car and yet you come to this one and stand there, expecting me to move it for you!  

Zofia becomes agitated. She sits down. The young woman wont let go of it: look at that seat, or that one! But no, I had to lift the pack and give you this seat! Zofia answers, meekly: but I can't see well. I just came here because my eyesight isn't very good. A man on the other side of the car joins in: here's a seat next to me and here's another one. You cant see those? Why pick the one with the pack? 

This continues for a couple of minutes. Everyone else in the car is dead silent.

And I wonder why? This is not the Poland I know. Men here will still get up to give a seat to an older woman, as will young people. What just happened here?

 

 

 So I give up the idea of meditating about life and specifically life in Poland, and I turn to Zofia to normalize the situation for her as best as I can. She tells me she wont go out today again. She just wants to get to her apartment and sit there and not venture out anymore. But no! going out is good for you! Dont give up on it. The young woman probably had a bad day. Ignore her. It's not important. Can you go for a walk? It's so lovely outside! You're young still. What, my age maybe? (I'm thinking old people like to be told that they look young.) 

I'm 88. And no more walks. I pat her arm and say some more stuff that to me sounds a little trite, but perhaps to her it doesn't. 

At the next stop, the young woman with the back pack gets ready to exit the train. As she leaves, she throws out a "do widzenia!" to us. A good bye.

So maybe Poland hasn't changed? She obviously was feeling remorseful. I'm hoping that Poles still look out for one another. That they wont stand for bullying. But maybe we've all changed over the decades of a heaving political landscape. Maybe we all want to hide in our own safe worlds like never before. I hope not.

 

I meet my sister at the subway stop close to the office of something or other -- where they issue and update personal identity cards. Mine is expiring in a year. I need to apply for a new one. We take care of that very quickly and move on to my next essential: I have a small bank account here that I use when I have to move money or pay someone for something in Poland. I cant access it because I have the wrong phone number attached with it for online verification. So we change that. Efficiently, quickly. And then we find a coffee shop and sit down for cake and coffee.

 

 

 

And my nephew, who lives not too far from there joins us.

 

 

 

And it is wonderful to see them, to catch up. I spend quite a long time nursing a coffee. But of course, cafes are notoriously open-minded about the length of your stay.

Eventually, we catch the metro to the city center.

To my childhood neighborhood. 

For a person who claims not to want to reach back into her past, I have to admit it that when in Warsaw, I always want to see again (and again) the two apartment buildings where I grew up. The first is in a building right by a tram stop (I write about this in Like a Swallow). Listening to the ring of the departing bell is so ingrained in my memory that I swear that when I have total dementia I will still recognize the noise for what it is.

I moved to this apartment from my grandparents' house in the village when I was three. (It's in the photo's farther building, without the fancy renovated balconies.) It was the place that had the first toilet I ever sat on, the first elevator I ever rode.  The first taste of city life for me.

 

 

The apartment was tiny -- just two rooms, the elevator often smelled of piss, the gas water heater in the bathroom was terrifying, but the four of us felt it to be home. 

From there, it's just a short walk to our second Warsaw home, where I lived out my teen years. To walk to it, you pass through blocks that have not changed at all from the time I was a child. Oh sure, the stores are completely different now that the market economy has exploded here. But the buildings, the tram routes -- they are exactly as they were. When I look around me, I feel all the angst of my childhood and adolescence all over again.

Stalinist architecture, here we come:

 

 

 

One man holds a mining  tool, the other a farming tool, and in between, there is this guy with a golf club? Funny.

 

 

This building (which I include it in so many Ocean posts from Warsaw) is where I lived as a teen. My father had risen in the diplomatic ranks, my mother knew who to cozy up to for personal gain, and so we were granted the use of an apartment in this building (the one with the big balcony, though that wasn't ours):

 

 

 No more piss in the elevator, and we now had three rooms. And yet, it's not a happy memories place. And who knows what the future of it will be. My parents are dead, my father's girlfriend is in a nursing home. Maybe in its next incarnation, the place will have a happy family there, loving their good fortune of having a home just steps away from Warsaw's nicest parks.

And we head to one of those parks now. This one:

 

 

 

 

We were to catch a bus or tram to my hotel from here, but instead, we walk. Because it's an iconic walk, along the Royal Way. With nothing but stories and memories. 

 (Plac of Three Crosses, where my paternal grandparents got married)

 

 

(we keep going) 

 

 

(the newly repaved and replanted Chmielna that now looks a thousand times better for the work done here in the last years) 

 

 

Approaching the Old Town now... 

 

 

With this iconic square (Castle Square) and the Column of King Zygmunt. It is the oldest statue in Warsaw, but like everything here -- it's been through a lot, including a near total destruction during the Warsaw Uprising in 1944.

 

 

This next one is a somewhat controversial monument -- to commemorate the heroism of  children during the Second World War.

 

 

 Why would that be controversial? Well, the heroism is undisputed. But a very young child with a gun, fighting the enemy? No, children were not recruited to fight with guns in the war.

 

It is after 7 before we sit down in a restaurant recommended by my hotel (Otto Pompieri -- an Italian place). I was so very perfect. Not Polish, to be sure, but if I am inviting those two out to dinner, why would I want to emphasize Polish food? It's whatever feels right for the moment and sitting at an outside table tonight with them felt so very right!

 

 

I feel like my first 24 hours in Warsaw have been as good as it gets. Three people that I deeply love, filling my hours with stories and listening to mine as well, all in the beautiful summer light of Warsaw in August.

with so much love... 

 

to Warsaw

First of all, I must tell you that there is no direct flight from Bergen to Warsaw. You have to fly via Amsterdam or Copenhagen or Oslo or Paris and maybe some other destinations as well, just not "nonstop." This means that the day will be devoted mainly to getting to Warsaw.

Second of all, it is still raining and cold outside. My body is pumped up for warmth, because I left a very warm Wisconsin. It hasn't yet adjusted to the cold here, which is fine, because Warsaw is about to have a heat wave. As is my last destination of this trip and surely as is the farmette upon my return. It a little reminds me of my stopover in Iceland, heading home in June. From warm to cold to warm again. Older people don't like such weather fluctuations. I will confirm that statement!

Finally, I am finding that older people are not so quick to adjust to time changes. It's as if our circadian rhythm is so set in stone, that big shifts lead us to get confused about bedtime, wake-up time, eating time. I have argued with my physical self that it really must give in to sleep before 3 a.m. It has responding with a "ha ha you can't make me."

Last night, I thought I'd have some time to maybe even do the penultimate tourist thing here -- go up the mountain in the funicular train. For the views. But I was up late and dawdled my way through the morning, eating breakfast downstairs to the music of Grieg played on the piano next to me...

Put simply -- I ran out of time. Besides, I wasn't dressed for it. Switching to clothes for the Polish heatwave makes me vulnerable to Bergen's cold winds. 

It was, therefore, a long and leisurely breakfast. Maybe that is a better use of time anyway.

I think about Norway all morning long. My visit here wasn't long and it's only the second time I've been in this country, and yet some things are glaringly obvious. I'd just read in the Economist ( here), that if you consider the three principle markers of wealth (GDP per person, adjusted for price differences, and hours worked), Norway comes out at the very top, for the second year in a row. Its wealth is in part attributable to its natural resources (oil, gas) and yet, here's a fun fact: its oil supplies do not place it in the category of countries who shun renewable energy. (I think that club is increasingly smaller; we may be the sole member by the end of the decade.) Nor do they rely on gas guzzling automobiles. I learned (by experience and asking about it) that all of Norway's taxis are EVs. Such technology! I took three cabs in the course of my stay and they all had screens that showed every human and automobile within the perimeter of the car. Their navigation tools may be common in the US as well, but I've not seen them -- not in taxis, not in Uber rides. I was surprised, too, to see the number of tunnels we went through in all my connecting drives. At first I thought it was because of mountains, but then I saw on the taxi's screen that we went under lakes, housing developments, forests -- you name it. No wonder the presence of cars isn't as obvious and audible here. So many of them are hidden from view.

For all their wealth and life's satisfactions, it is also true that Norwegians are reserved. I had to chuckle at the book I saw at the airport:

They are indeed straight-faced and they don't appear to seek out conversations with strangers, my body scrubber notwithstanding. And yet, when I see them gather with family and friends, the warmth is strong and genuine and laughter abounds. Here's just one of so many examples -- today, at breakfast, a multi generational family (the child has to stand on tiptoes as he reaches for tall grandpa's hand):

Meanwhile, also during breakfast, I'm reading an article on the NYTimes (gifted for you; note it is an opinion piece) on how the current administration's great desire to "own the libs" is putting us even further away from real prosperity for all. If the Economist reports us to be in seventh place in terms of wealth, I'd say that may come as a surprise, but it will be no surprise if we keep falling each year.

 

By 11:30, I am leaving the hotel, lovely that it is...

 (I could spend a lot of time in this lobby listening to the live piano music...)

 

 

(... or downstairs in the exhibition hall, reading all about Grieg...)

 

 

Outside, the air is very blustery, but the rains have paused.

 

 

 

Time to catch my flight to Copenhagen. One hour and five in the air. Then another flight, equally short. I arrive in Warsaw just before 6 p.m.

Warsaw, and Poland in general, are becoming more and more complicated for me. So much of my past is in this city, in this country. But I'm not programmed or self-trained or motivated to look back. I did it for my book, Like a Swallow and once that was published, I closed that lid for good. I understand that some people like to review their young lives once they get old. I am not one of them. If it weren't for one small detail, I'd probably not be running back to Poland with the regularity that has been my trademark for the past ten or twenty years. It's a small detail, but it's absolutely a game-changer: my sister, nephew, and very close friend all live in Warsaw. To skip my annual trip to my homeland would be to give up on seeing them (they will never come to America -- there is zero chance of them traveling to where I live). So for now, I go back, but every time I plan this trip, I feel the anxiety of plunging into that world again. Perhaps that adds to the rebellion against adjusting to a new circadian rhythm?

And yet...

I feel I do Warsaw a disservice. I cannot be objective and claim with certainty that it is a great place to come to, because I know it too well to regard it from the perspective of an outsider. Intimately well. But I also know that without doubt, Warsaw is fascinating. A real blend of history before your eyes. It was as grand in the eyes of the world as Vienna and Paris, before the wars tore it apart. Once cosmopolitan -- indeed, before World War II, every third resident was Jewish and according to most accounts, it had the second largest community of Jewish people in the world (after New York). Now? Well, the Ukrainian war brought Ukrainians here, but otherwise, I still think of Warsaw as ethnically and religiously undifferentiated. Still, it's got regional pride! And it's a green city, with beautiful parks. It has a dynamic food scene. My most recent hotels have been extraordinary. Objectively lovely. And yet, I'm not pressed to return frequently. Maybe I just know it too well. (But then, why keep going to Paris?) Quite likely it's that I have an ever present desire to move forward. Keep my past at the margins. Stay focused on the years before me.

 This time I am in Warsaw and in Poland for five days. Think that's short? There aren't many cities in this world (perhaps none, aside from Paris) where I would spend so many days. This year I'm trying out a brand new hotel, close to the Old Town. Ironically enough it is run by a Norwegian company -- the Puro Old Town. I booked before they even finished building the place and so I had my choice of rooms. I picked one (perhaps the only one?) with a balcony. 

I cab over to the hotel. It's a relatively short distance -- a 25 minute trip on the weekend. 

And immediately I fall in love with this Puro! It's just as described, only better. The minimalism, the freshness, the Scandinavian simplicity -- all there. And the view! Straight onto the Grand Theater and Opera House of Warsaw, which is indeed grand -- built in the early 19th century (like so many historically significant buildings, it was destroyed during World War II and meticulously rebuilt, and reopened in 1965), and larger than any theater I've come across elsewhere.

 

(only a fragment appears in the photo, taken from my balcony)

 

 (my room -- spacious and serene. the flowers? provided by my friend!)

 

Ah, my friend! She comes right away to my hotel. Bee, my awesome loyal forever friend, whom I have known for 45 years -- and our friendship only grows: an unstoppable train, moving at great speed forward, maybe because we are of the same age and we know that time is precious.

Somehow I thought I'd find food at the airports or in flight today. I would have, had I gone the longer way (through Amsterdam or Paris). But I chose the shorter connections and I arrive without lunch or dinner (but after a big breakfast!). Thus the first thing to do, after checking out my room is to find some food for me. (Not many Poles would put off eating a big meal until the evening and so Bee is across the table from me just for company.) Beets, pears and endive...

 

 

 

And delicious Polish "dumplings," with chanterelles and fava beans. 

 

 

And we share a cheesecake. Such a common dessert here. So out of favor back home. 

We talk some and of course we will do this again and again in the days ahead. I do have to keep it not too long tonight. I'm going to work on my internal clock again. Time to get serious about getting some sleep.

with love...